


The Woman

by Officer_Jennie



Series: Tobirama in Mythology [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Canon Universe, Delicious Tea, Gen, Horror, Mentions of Kawarama, Mentions of Madara, No Beta, Self-Reflection, Senju Tobirama centric, Some Humor, Some Romance, Supernatural Elements, Uchiha Itachi but not really, mentions of Hashirama, mentions of Itama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Officer_Jennie/pseuds/Officer_Jennie
Summary: "Tobirama was more soldier than leader, fighting his way across battlefields in both Fire and Water country, forcing troops back from Lightning and River, more than earning the title White Demon. He’d seen fields and woods and rivers all across his daimyo’s territory - soaked in blood and littered with the dead and dying. Sees them still, again and again, reliving battles won and lost even as he sleeps.He’s never seen this place before."Or: A woman in the woods offers Tobirama tea, and he agonizes over the implications.





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story probably most fits into the horror genre, but there's humor sprinkled in because apparently Tobirama refuses to not be a sassy, snarky bitch. There's descriptions of violence, but nothing too graphic - honestly the M-rating was just for safety's sake.
> 
> The chapters aren't consistent in length, due simply to the nature of the story. The first will be the longest, and the last will be rather short.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fire is your enemy, a traitor to your being. You are a soldier, a weapon of war. And your moon,” she looks up then, away from him. Her face glows in the pale light, dark eyes ablaze, “Your moon is bleeding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started drafting this story, it was my first attempt at writing anything with the character Tobirama. Technically, by the time this goes up, I will have already uploaded several other stories with him in them, but this was started at least a week or two before any of the others. So, here's to hoping it does his wonderful character justice.

_Fire_

 

There are many things Tobirama will never forget.

He was the second son of Senju Butsuma, one of several spares in case the eldest, the heir, was slain. He was baptized in war, learning the sting of steel and taste of blood as he learned to walk. The enemy was fire and red eyes - he was water and lightning crashing into them, cutting them down faster and faster, barely outrunning his own death more than once.

Even during momentary lulls of peace, war was in his veins, burned in his blood and hardened his gaze. His enemies were no longer just fire - they were sand and earth and water. Clan enemies became rival mercenaries became foreign shinobi, identities changing but results remaining the same. The proud steel of their loyalty splashed red as he felled them, his blade quicker even as they grew in skill and numbers.

His eldest sibling fell, and Tobirama, the last living spare, stepped up to replace him. It was a role he was born and bred for, trained in his every waking breath for.

He found himself lacking.

Tobirama was more soldier than leader, fighting his way across battlefields in both Fire and Water country, forcing troops back from Lightning and River, more than earning the title White Demon. He’d seen fields and woods and rivers all across his daimyo’s territory - soaked in blood and littered with the dead and dying. Sees them still, again and again, reliving battles won and lost even as he sleeps.

He’s never seen this place before.

A small clearing with a still pond, surrounded by grass and oak. The sky dark, but vision unimpaired. Spearmint and lemon, the taste faint on the tip of his tongue. A woman in formal attire, sitting at the edge of the quiet water, kimono layers fanned around her on the ground. One pale wrist exposed, fine fingers gripping the handle of pottery, a tea pot, steam smoking the air. Straight black hair, lips parted - and then coal black eyes meet his ruby gaze.

In them, Tobirama sees fire and smoke, sees the forests burning, the corpses of his brothers piling around him, rotting. Sees the flickering madness of a traitor, manic and proud and wild as they shred his world apart.

He attacks before the woman can speak.

 

* * *

 

Time passes, he knows, but the woman stays the same. She’s always waiting in the clearing, right by the quiet pond. Her tea is always just brewed and steaming, her fall kimono unstained and brilliant despite his numerous attempts to cut her down.

His armor is dented and scuffed, war paint smeared across his pale face. His own clothes are ruined, shredded and stained crimson with his own blood, mud weighing heavily on his limbs, coating his legs and arms.

But Tobirama is nothing if not a warrior, and moves unhindered. He strikes at the woman with speed unmatched and precision hard-earned, weapons and jutsu alike always hitting their mark.

It never matters. Each time he returns, there she sits, two cups by her side, pouring her tea slowly. Each time, she turns her head just enough for one coal eye to meet his gaze, parting her lips as if to speak.

He does not allow her a single word. Despite his disbelief in witch craft - he has been, always will be, a man of war and science, not of blind faith and magic - he knows she will bewitch him if allowed to speak.

He silences her quickly, too fast for her to have a chance.

 

* * *

 

The sky is black and empty here, only lit by a full moon bleeding red - red that doesn’t tint the air around him, never touches him. Pond water is clean and unmoving, grass and clover thick and dark green. Looming oaks look and feel of late summer - the woman’s kimono reads fall, rich fabric tan and gold and red. Her chakra is a bonfire, too hot before him, impossible to block out.

Everything around him is dull and muted. He reaches out for miles and miles, stretching thin his senses to their limits, but her fire suffocates him until there is nothing. He cannot even sense the nature around him.

His own chakra runs wild within him, live static just beneath his skin, lashing out. His world is silent for the first time - and the silence is overwhelming.

She turns her head as she always does, dark eyelashes in stark contrast with fawn skin. Her smile shows too many teeth, her face too still even in movement, breath too quiet as she speaks.

“Would you like some tea?”

His answer is the steel of his blade.

 

* * *

 

Despite his speed and sensory skills, Tobirama does not have much active espionage experience. His fair skin would blend better into Snow country rather than the rich woods of Fire, his piercing red eyes and rigid nature too recognizable. Even before taking account of his lineage, his appearance made him far from the best pick for such missions.

Still, he was a well read man, and had fallen down various different research holes, including some revolving around the nature of specialized infiltration nin. He knows and can recite dozens of interrogation tactics, pros and cons of each included, and knows theory after theory on how the brain functions and reacts to such tactics, having written several theories of his own. Most importantly, he’s well aware of the elastic nature of the brain, and knows how to wear it down, how to make it break.

He also recognizes an exercise in futility when he sees one.

The woman never changes. Her clothes remain unsinged or frayed, her tea pot never broken or chipped. The trees and clover never burned nor grew. The full moon always hung alone in the sky, and always bled crimson that never tinted his skin.

The blood on his hands never washes away, always fresh and bright despite a consistent lack of injury.

He stops bothering with vain attempts to kill her.

He whispers “kai” under his breath until his voice should be hoarse. He draws seal after counter seal into the ground, using his own blood as ink. In desperation, he attempts to put himself under a genjutsu - all in order to break the illusion around him.

Each time, he returns, finding the ground untouched. He checks his body for injuries, finding nothing but old battle scars and thick blood mixing with dirt upon his skin.

The scent of cinnamon and cloves hangs heavy in the air, waiting for him. She is ever patient, the same question on her lips.

He knows never to answer an enemy, no matter how inane the question, no matter if they’re an illusion. There’s a person behind the illusion, after all - he suspects more than one here. He was raised and trained to slaughter a clan of genjutsu specialists, and finds himself struck helpless in spite of that. Most likely this was woven by several individuals, instead of just one alone.

Yet, just as remaining neutral is choosing a side, staying quiet is its own response. His answer is silence.

 

* * *

 

He is not always here. There is an in-between, an unnamed place he cannot picture in his mind. Time spent not-here is unquantifiable. Even as he is aware that the not-here place exists, and that he is there before each return to here, he has no memory of leaving, nor of being in that distinctly there-not-here place. There is no way of measuring what he is, effectively, unaware of.

It infuriates him. He cannot sense where it might be, and no matter how long or far he sprints, he’s always here, the pond just visible beyond the oaks next to him. The dimensions of this place are statistically impossible and utter nightmare fuel.

He exhales slowly through his nose, frustration showing tense on his face. He’s mathematically judging someone’s genjutsu now. And, seeing as he’s unable to _break_ said genjutsu, he’s not entirely sure he has any room to do so.

He wears a new path into the thick clover each time he’s here, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a migraine that never actually comes, the gesture more a habit than a necessity.

The woman seems to take great amusement out of his suffering. Her smile shows no teeth now, long fingers wrapped around the still steaming tea cup, held close as if to ward off a non-existent chill - yet, he notices, remaining ever untasted.

Her voice is deep and soft, unwavering. Her fingernails are manicured and painted vermilion, speaking of wealth and stature. Her posture is too straight for civilian, her chakra too steady and alive to be non-shinobi. Her kimono says royalty.

He reminds himself once more, in frustration, that this is a constructed reality, a genjutsu, not a situation he can analyze himself out of. She is not real.

Then, he pauses, red eyes narrowed to meet coal. The puppeteer (or, rather, puppeteers) made this to show him - made her to speak to him. A genjutsu of this caliber would be a waste of chakra and time on someone less experienced than himself. It would be safe - and no doubt wise - to assume this reality was constructed specifically _for him_.

When captured, a shinobi shouldn’t answer any questions, no matter how unimportant or obvious the answer may seem. Speaking at all is extremely inadvisable, dangerous, and unprofessional.

Logically speaking, sitting down and speaking with this woman - _illusion_ \- reeks of desperation and downright idiocy.

He sits to her right, logic be damned, avoiding the tea cup so obviously meant for him on her left. He watches her for some time - watches steam waft into the air before her, watches her steady breathing, watches her watching the static reflections before them.

When he next returns, his tea is on her right. She mocks him without words.

He maintains eye contact, making a show of sitting to her left. Her smile shows white teeth.

“Would you like some tea?”

He lets out a most undignified snort (something he’s most definitely not done before, no matter what his most esteemed elder brother might say, _thank you very much_ ).

“Clearly you don’t.” The words are out before he can stop himself, and a curse follows shortly after under his breath. He was meant to study this illusion, carefully plan out his inquiries, not actively attempt to antagonize his captors like some green novice. Even the most meticulously planned out questions should be asked with caution, especially in his situation - in an unknown place, under an unknown, powerful jutsu (thought most probably an unknown, powerful _gen_ jutsu), kept by an unknown enemy for an indeterminate amount of time; he’s as close to having zero data as any shinobi ever could be, even one of his caliber, _and he’s making snarky comments like he’s nine again_.

And _someone_ (who shall remain nameless for their utter _buffoonery_ ) thought to leave him in charge of thousands of lives, in a _diplomatic position_.

The _nameless stump_ clearly needed his head examined. Though, perhaps it’s Tobirama himself that needs the check-up. Both? He scowls inwardly, clamping down on his inner lecture for later.

Tilting her head, she meets his gaze, her smile widening just a fraction, sending a shiver down the warrior’s spine. He likens the heat of her gaze to that of a spider as it crawls towards its victim, caught in her web.

“It is impolite to drink before a guest, is it not?”

An answer suitable for civilian or royal standards, perhaps. Tobirama scowls, tearing his eyes away from hers with a jerk of his head. No shinobi would follow such etiquette. A shinobi host eats or drinks before their guest, proving it safe to ingest - though, the act in and of itself does not eliminate the potential of being poisoned. The host might have a built-up immunity, or an antidote close at hand; the guest’s cup might be tainted; a stray touch might spread a contact poison onto a bare hand or arm.

Poisoning strategies set aside for now - Tobirama’s scowl deepens at his own wondering thoughts - why answer his statement in this manner? Considering the wording, she’s waiting for a response. It’s more evasive than an actual answer, which could be seen as a manipulative move on her part. But the statement suggests they follow etiquette he would never agree to, and he’s certain an actual woman akin to this construct would not follow such either.

Unless she thought him a fool, and actually meant to poison him. Rather, in this case, means to fake poison him in an illusion. But his captors clearly know him, meaning they have to be aware of his intelligence - too intelligent for such a weak ploy. He doubts they are idiotic enough to underestimate him in such a way, seeing as they are still alive _and he’s still here_.

He eyes her out of his periphery, studies the fine silk she’s dressed in. She was clearly designed to resemble royalty, perhaps to play at his shinobi sense of loyalty and fealty. Is he meant to be guilted into following her instructions then? Perhaps they expect him to defer out of politeness? He isn’t exactly known for being excessively polite, but he makes a point to not be outright rude, especially when dealing with foreign dignitaries.

All this under consideration, he’s still not sure why the effort would be needed. Could they not just make him believe he’s ingested the poison? Does this particular genjutsu require some form of tactile belief on his part in order to effect him?

With only two questions ever being directed at him, he hardly had enough statistical data to make predictions about her responses; as a matter of fact, it would be both incorrect and completely asinine to do so. That being said, Tobirama suspects she will remain evasive and irritatingly contrary - it’s a common strategy used by politicians and royals, as well as the more flighty shinobi. He himself prefers to be clear and concise with his points, or simply not talk at all. He’s not likely to get much with the former approach, seeing as any demands he would make would be far from his captor’s own agenda - and he knows exactly how far the latter got him earlier (see: _no where_ ).

Playing evasive back is probably not going to get him much farther, mind, but he’s quickly running out of options and patience for this… _situation_ he’s found himself in.

When he returns, his cup is still on her right - to study his reaction to environmental changes, more than likely, or to condition him through small, subtle changes. He scans his surroundings at the second option, carefully making note of each and every difference, tallying up to the ever astounding number of _just the sage damned tea cup_.

This woma-illusion is worse than that prickly traitor of an inferno his brother tried to adopt like some poor lost puppy - like he wasn’t burning across battlefields _slaughtering their kin_.

Like he wasn’t going to abandon them at the first hint of something good.

“Why tea.” It’s more demand than question, snapped out before the woman can speak, his patience wearing thin. He knows it will do him no favors, will only play into her hands, but thoughts of that thrice-damned bastard has always made his blood boil - she resembles him, her chakra the same fire-heat, ink-black hair and burning eyes the same that haunted his dreams, woke him drenched in sweat, remembering the taste of his name on cracked lips-

She looks away, the smile on her lips small and sly. “It’s what I have to offer.”

He would snap her neck if he thought it would do any good - if he hadn’t already done so dozens of times before. He rounds on her instead, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I’m aware of that, woman, I asked why.”

Her laugh is quiet, low, more air than sound. He’s reminded of an Uchiha woman then, a shinobi with a limp and a wicked grin, laughing, running gloved fingers though the thick, dark curls on her son’s head - _Kagami_ \- remembers his student pouting, but large eyes always laughing.

The sound echoes hollow in his ears now.

He grinds his teeth together, barely biting back his temper. His eyes pinch closed as he rubs one temple, his fingers slick with still-fresh blood. Fine. Next question. “Why a red moon?”

He doesn’t need to hear her answer to know he will hate it. He listens anyway.

“Are you asking why there is a moon?” His chakra itches to singe her clothes with lightning. “Or how it came to be?” Answers then. Plural. “Or why you can see it from here?” A multitude of reasons to put himself out of his own misery - it would surely save them both grief at this point. “Or perhaps why there’s only the one moon?”

A deep inhale. Five things he can feel: her gaze on his face, the thick blanket of damp clover beneath him. The scratch of burnt fabric at his fingertips. Soft fur brushing against his neck and chin. His heart beating within his chest.

A slow exhale. Five things he can see…

“I’m asking,” he grits out, forcing his eyes open - the peanut browns of the oaks across the water, the glittering gold hem of one kimono layer to his right, _the blood on his hands_ -

Inhale. The chipping paint of his armor. The fraying ends of his sleeves. Exhale. “I’m asking why the moon is red.”

“Because that is how you see it.” She shrugs one shoulder as she answers, as if it’s an answer at all, straight hair spilling before her. She tucks the strands back behind her ear, the sleeve of her kimono pulling back to reveal smooth, unmarred skin. No marks, no scars, no tattoos, no hair - the illusion so clearly flawed in its perfection.

Try as he might, glaring at her does not make her answer any less obtusely. She simply meets his gaze and stares back, unbothered by his frustration or malice. The pale fawn of her face, lightest yellow-brown always paired with back tomoe in crimson eyes in his memories, has his instincts desperate to break eye contact. But he’s already deep under, isn’t he? No spell she can spin with her eyes should worry him now.

“Elaborate.”

Humming low, she glances down at him, taking a moment to evaluate his condition. She then flicks one wrist, gesturing at his general appearance. “You have armor, which is damaged and worn. Your chakra is a weapon readied to strike. Your hands, soaked in blood.” She pauses, peering back at his face through dark eyelashes. “Whose blood is it, I wonder.”

He waves her statements away with a gesture of his own. “You’re just stating facts.” He pointedly ignores the implied question, droplets of red flying from the flick of his wrist, running pink in the water before them.

“Fire is your enemy, a traitor to your being,” she continues, as if ignoring an interruption, as if she hadn’t prompted him to speak in the first place. “You are a soldier, a weapon of war. And your moon,” she looks up then, away from him. Her face glows in the pale light, dark eyes ablaze. She points upwards, and he cannot help but follow her gaze. “Your moon is bleeding.”

The blood on his hands never dried. He had tried wiping it off, had tried washing his hands in the clear water before him. His blood was always fresh, coating his palms, dripping down his fingers, smearing and _tainting_ whatever he touched.

“Forget the red moon.” He blinks, tearing his gaze away from the sky. She holds his cup out to him, her own held close to her chest. Warm cinnamon and cloves, dark red-brown liquid yet no visible leaves or petals or spice. He frowns, hesitant - but takes the cup, settling it into his lap, clasped between wet hands.

He stares down at it as if disbelieving it’s existence (ignoring all technicalities; _nothing_ is here, here is a constructed fallacy), watching red-orange smear across the faint designs of yellow ginkgo leaves.

One calloused fingertip traces gold-trimmed porcelain. His blood runs still, but never reaches the warm brew, never stains the tea bitter with copper. It stays untouched, unchanged - just like the woman at his side.

Senju Tobirama is many things. He is the second son of a warlord, sharpened and honed in battle. He is the first to strike when enemies are near, aim precise and fatal. He is calculating, sure of his strength and intelligence, proud to a fault. He is a breathing weapon, a shinobi of war, a blur on the battlefield.

He hesitates, but lifts the cup, sees the red moon reflected within. Tastes the spice on his tongue and lips. Feels the warmth down his throat.

It tastes of fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering why Tobirama just started to count things at the end: it's a form of Buddhist meditation following the ideas of Mindfullness, and is actually used in some forms of modern-day therapy. I'm sure it's found in other forms of therapy and meditation, but Buddhism is my main area of study, so I'm not aware of the other ones if they exist.


	2. Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been here several times, seen the waning violet of the moon, felt the endless current of emotion just beneath her skin.
> 
> She speaks to him, intonation suggesting a question, but the air is too heavy around him, words lost to the pressure in his ears, the white static of the helpless nothing he can do to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention this story is more of a character study than a plot-driven sort of thing.

_Lightning_

There are things Tobirama cannot forget.

He sees them in the dead of night, sweat a cold sheen across his skin. Breaths catching in his throat, aborted cries on his tongue, panic shocking his system until he can feel nothing else, _see_ nothing else.

- _tawny skin splashed in red, umber eyes blank, small bodies stiff, still, dead dead dead_ -

His memory is a terrible thing, images stored in horrific clarity, flickering through his mind. He knows each face, remembers the weight of each name on the flat of his tongue. Knows the paralyzing remorse, regret, as each person fades from him, slips from his tight grasp, only alive in his racing mind.

Recites the names as a prayer, tastes each syllable as penance. Breathes them out, into slick palms and shaking knees against his chest. _Kawarama, Itama, Izuna, Madara, Hashirama_ \- the list of failures only growing with him, etched under his skin, into his bones.

Death, an intimate bed mate, a selfish lover. No matter how many Tobirama offers up, Death takes and takes from him still, never satisfied, never sated.

The woman’s chakra surges within her, near frantic in motion. It sets his heart racing to match the non-rhythm, pupils dilating, panting, shaking, regret spitting cold in his veins.

Death will take her too, and he can do nothing to stop it.

 

* * *

 

There is something desperate in the way she clasps her tea cup, fingertips too tight on celeste lines, pale blue matching the trim polish of her nails.

He’s been here several times, seen the waning violet of the moon, felt the endless current of emotion just beneath her skin. She remains steadfast, seeming calm even under the dense presence in the air. It’s thick, suffocating, tasting of _danger_ - _death_ - _agony_ - _regret_ on his lips.

She speaks to him, intonation suggesting a question, but the air is too heavy around him, words lost to the pressure in his ears, the white static of the helpless _nothing_ he can do to stop it, he has to stop it, _stop it stop it_ -

 _It_ is death, suffering, small graves dug by his hands, grief striking him to his knees. He’s never stopped it before, no matter how fast he ran or how loud he screamed - it’s only ever delayed, it will come and take _and take and take_ -

He is water and lightning, calm and quick-fury. He’s the fastest shinobi in Fire, faster still than any other in the surrounding countries. _And he cannot outrun this._

 

* * *

 

He swallows, panic a throbbing lump in his throat. She looks at him, black eyes meeting his wide red. Her lips are pulled too thin, the flash of teeth too quick to be genuine, voice low and quiet as if sound would spark whatever hellfire awaits them.

He has seen eyes like hers, coal black and untamed. Has seen them dampened, snuffed out. Felt the rough scratch of wild hair under the pads of his fingers, the feel and color dulled by battle and ash and blood. Felt the shudder of breath leaving lungs for the last time, light fading, felt him leave, felt him die even as he sobbed into the broad chest for him not to go, don’t go, _please don’t leave me, don’t go don’t go_.

Her offer reaches his ears, rings in the silence between them, but he cannot bring himself to answer.

 

* * *

 

It has yet to come for her.

He’s not sure how many times he’s been here, hasn’t tried to keep track. Each time he returns, she remains untouched, the pale silver and white of her kimono still an untainted snow drift around her.

Her movements are cautious, slow, as if she wished to not startle him, to not bother him with the overwhelming _fear-panic-pain-remorse_ he feels coursing through her, storming wild in her eyes.

Laughter tears out of him, manic in nature. He runs a wet palm across his face, runs red through white hair, covers his mouth. Copper taints his tongue and chapped lips.

She cannot save him from this, just as he cannot save her.

 

* * *

 

Loss weighs heavy on his heart, constricts his lungs, burns in his chest. He remembers a small boy in his arms, palms pressed hard and desperate against a weeping wound too deep, blood flowing between his fingers. Panic in umber-brown eyes, light fading fast, breaths shallow and quick and never enough. Remembers sobbing his brother’s name, over and over and over, voice broken and raw and _never enough_.

Remembers standing at his grave, his two remaining brothers at his side. Red eyes dry, shoulders stiff, determined and strong and _afraid_. Remembers well his first failure, and swears it will be his last.

Whispers his promise into the soft of his brother’s white-black hair, under the boy’s soft cries. Writes it in circles on his back. Lulls the boy into a fitful sleep in his tight embrace, wrapping the covers around them to block out the cold of the world.

He repeats his failure not a month later.

An ambush, just at the edge of Senju territory. He’s not fast enough to reach them, small limbs trained and strong but still _small_ , still too young. He does not see the fight, does not watch the light fade from large eyes, eyes that have always looked at him filled with wonder and awe and pride.

He senses it anyway, feels every second, grasps at his brother’s chakra with his own as if to keep him here, safe, _alive_. Feels the sharp spike of surprise and pauses his kata practice; the strong bite of a slashing battle as his own eyes widen, as he rushes for his blade. Feels the shaking fear and pain mirroring his own, sprinting from the armory, a streak of white in the dense forest.

Knows the moment Itama greets death, crashing _fear-pain-alone_ , trips him in its intensity, sending him scrambling to the forest brush even as the life drips from his grasp.

The body is still warm when he reaches it, shock and agony written forever on his soft face. He carries him home, the crimson of his failure soaking through his clothes, ruining them. The clothes are burned. His hands remain stained.

She does not have to die alone.

Steps light, breaths soft, he approaches her. She meets his gaze as always, emotions raging in her black eyes, grip steady and white as she fills both cups without a spill.

She offers him tea, as she always does, ever polite even as their end draws near.

The waning moon looms bright above them, near blinding even in reflection. Adrenaline speeds through his system. His limbs scream for action, fingers itch for the comfort of his missing blade. But the weight of his armor is a small comfort, just enough to keep him still.

His face looks weary, white besides the streak of blood from his palms -  _their blood_ - red eyes dark and full of agony. The weight in his chest aches and pulls at him. Instinct tells him to run, escape, hide - but he knows this enemy is everywhere, nowhere, cannot be stopped. Has already won.

He has failed so many before, and now he fails himself.

Fine silk brushes against his shoulder. She holds out his cup, clutching her own as if a lifeline. He takes it from her gingerly, tracing the outline of a mountain with the rough pad of his thumb. The snow cap stains red in his hands.

“What’s it for?” He flinches, his voice too loud in the deafening silence.

“To forget.”

Unspoken words hang heavy between them. He lifts the cup, allowing the steam to warm his face. Closes his eyes, breathing in, the smell sharp and clear.

Hibiscus and the tang of lime on his tongue, cherry thick in his throat. He drains the cup, and makes an offering of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter! I've nearly finished editing the entire story - it's just the third chapter that's giving me issues - so the rest of it should be up soon. The feedback was all greatly appreciated :)
> 
> Questions and comments, as always, are both welcomed and greatly appreciated!


	3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the curiosity - the need to know - driving him further and further down. Tobirama's been told it will be the death of him, and he’s not entirely certain that sentiment's false.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

_Water_

She is an ocean, vast and endless. Calm currents flow within her, pouring her energy into the air. Her movements fluid, eyes dark and full, smile knowing and mysterious.

She is an unknown entity, one that feels neither malicious or benevolent. He is drawn in by the flashing white of her teeth, the deep rumble of her voice. Settling into the grass beside her, he accepts the offered tea, examining the cup in his hands. Light pink petals on white china, matching the cerise color of the beverage.

“Sakura blossoms,” he muses, breathing in the soft sweet of the aroma. He turns to face her, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. His eyes flicker at her clothing, petals splashed here and there, embroidered pink on the fine silk. “You must like them.” She hums, the sound noncommittal. “It’s a shame there’s none here.”

“No?” She quirks an eyebrow, steady gaze meeting his own, unwavering. He shakes his head and looks around them.

“I didn’t see any. They’d be in bloom now. Do you know much about trees?” He waits for her answer; at the shake of her head, he continues, “It’s not my area of study really, but Anija insisted. It’s strange…” He frowns, voice trailing off as he studies the flora around them.

Tobirama purses his lips, studying the woman in his periphery. Hashirama was always telling him he’s terrible at reading people - to be fair, he’s not wrong. Social ques are not his strong suit - but he knows enough to doubt she’s interested in discussing trees. Besides…

There’s something…off here. Massive chakra stores aren’t entirely unheard of - case and point, both his brother and lover - but surely he would have at least heard of a woman of her caliber. Rumors spread quickly in their world; shinobi are awful gossips after all.

Speaking of oddities - where are they? Tobirama spares another minute to look around them. He doesn’t exactly remember traveling here. Or traveling at all, for that matter.

Shaking his head clear, he focuses back on his company. Shifting his position to face her fully, he gives her an apologetic smile. “I should have asked this to begin with, but… Who are you, exactly?”

“You could say I’m a tea sommelier.” Though her own smile doesn’t reach her eyes, humor is still etched into the lines of her lips. He tilts his head to one side, not quite understanding the joke but recognizing the attempt at evasiveness all the same.

“What can I call you?” He asks his questions with care. It’s clear she doesn’t want to reveal who she is, but it would be rude to just call her ‘woman’ while he’s here. Wherever ‘here’ was.

“Haru will do.” At his amused snort, her lips twitch upwards. “Perhaps you would prefer Izumi, then?”

The sparkle in her eyes tells him he’s missing something. He scratches his palm absently, the skin there dry and itchy from constant cleansing. “Haru-san works for me, if it does for you.”

“How polite of you,” she muses. “Shall I call you Tobirama-san? Or would you prefer Senju-san?”

Tobirama has the distinct feeling that she’s teasing him. He studies her eyes, but finds them impossible to read, like a room too full, a crowd saying so much all at once that you can’t understand a single word

“Tobirama-san is just fine.” Her smile widens, finally reaching those full eyes. He feels no fear at her bared teeth.

Perhaps, he thinks, he should be afraid.

 

* * *

 

“I read a book once,” Tobirama muses, pausing to run a bare palm down the rough bark in front of him. He can see the woman - Haru, rather - out of the corner of one eye, steam wafting into the air in front of her. He continues his stroll after a moment, circling the clearing, long fingers running against the wide trunks at his side. He speaks more to himself than anything else. “ _The Trees and Their Spirits_. Aya Gozen was practically Anija’s idol. Born and raised in war, ever preaching peace. Of course, she escaped the war, traveling from country to country. She’s the only reason we have any standard knowledge of dendrology, being the founder after all.”

He stops under a low hanging branch, catching a single leaf between his right index and thumb, careful to not pull it free. He’s opposite the pond now, can feel Haru’s gaze on his face even as he studies the small leaf, running the dry pad of his thumb over the teethed margin.

“She had to renounce her family to do so,” he voices softly, not really paying attention to what he’s saying, not sure if his voice even carries to his company, too focused on the trees around him. “Even if she hadn’t been from an affluent family, civilian migration is monitored heavily between countries. Religious figures have much more freedom to travel. Monks can’t quite come and go as they please, but can be granted permission more easily, and warring clans and shinobi usually leave them be.” He frowns without thinking, letting go of the leaf and running a hand over the front of his shirt. He takes a moment to wonder why he’s wearing his lab uniform, so far away from his village, before he snaps his head around to catch Haru’s steady gaze.

“Do you tend them?” His voice is sharp and focused once more, mind clear of his absent musings on traveling authors.

“Monks?” At the amused quirk of her eyebrow, he flushes. He gestures with one quick sweep of an arm.

“The trees, I mean. Do you tend the trees?” He looks down at his reflection, if only to look away from her. Faint embarrassment splashes pink across his cheeks, a stark contrast to the empty pale of his face, the white of his hair.

“They need no tending.”

Eyes still focused on his reflection, he sees the doubt shadowing his eyes, pursing his lips before turning back to the trees. “That’s not…” He looks up at the towering oak above him, sees the soft blue glow of the half moon through the still leaves. Reaches up, gently grasping one branch to pull it closer to him, tilting his head to speak to Haru once more.

“This is an ubame gashi. They grow near seacoast, no where near the mizunara,” he points to the right of the pond, then to the oaks behind her, “or the subartic kashiwa. As a matter of fact,” he takes in their surroundings with the sweep of a bare arm, “ _none_ of these oaks should be here. Not a single one is native to this climate.”

His voice trails off softly as he turns a slow circle, crimson eyes narrowed and studying with care. His tone stays soft, low, more out of quiet curiosity than anything else. “Where are we, exactly? I don’t think I’ve been here before. Well,” his gaze flickers towards her for a moment, “besides the last time we met. And I don’t remember traveling to get here either.”

Haru tilts her head, studying him for a moment, long hair spilling like ink into the white of her kimono. “What is your last memory, before being here?”

The answer should come easy to him. He opens his mouth to answer, but no words, no memory presents itself to him. It takes a minute to realize this as he shifts through memory after memory, closing his mouth slowly.

“Do you not know?” Her expression and tone hold no sympathy, and he doubts she ever thought he would. He shakes his head, feeling hesitation at admitting as much, before another emotion starts bubbling up within him, sliding down his limbs and sparking in his veins.

Fascination.

“How is this possible?” He starts to circle the pond back to her side, steps just on the edge of hurried. “How do I not know where I was, where I am?” And he does not. He can see his memories, swirling in his mind, all together and separate all at once, and not a one presenting in a time line.

He kneels down at her side. Part of him wants to be wary; most of him is giddy at the prospect of something so unique, so new. The scientific possibility of the flora growing here is astronomically low, the absence of fauna or other people is and oddity of its own, the lack of a breeze or even distant chakra signatures or sound of any sort - add into all of this Tobirama’s memory loop…

He should be afraid, furious, attacking instead of asking questions. But, right now, he just wants to _know_ , just manages to breathe out the words, “Where _are_ we?”

Haru pinches her painted lips together, glancing away from him to stare across the water. She taps one fingernail against her cup, soft pink tips clinking against white porcelain, brows scrunching up in thought. When she speaks, it’s slowly, as if she’s taking the time to weigh each word on her tongue.

“I cannot answer that question.”

He frowns, his bottom lip pushing out ever so slightly - if Hashirama was here, he would say he was pouting, and he would be absolutely wrong, he does _not_ pout, has never, not even as a child.

His definitely-not-a-pout does _not_ deepen at all as he responds.

“Is someone dictating what you’re allowed to say then? Are you not allowed to tell me where we are?” He rests his arms on his knees, allowing his weight to be supported on the balls of his bare feet.

“Not exactly.” She does not turn back to him. The hardened black of her eyes suggests it’s a difficult topic for her. “There is simply no answer to give.”

The stare he gives her is incredulous in nature, and he forces himself to not outright glare at her. “How can there not be an answer? We are somewhere, are we not? We are _here_.”

She shakes her head once more, giving a dismissal shrug of one shoulder. “There are not-answers.”

Her tone says she’s trying to be placating. He narrows his eyes and shoots her a nasty look before he can stop himself, then huffs. “You say that as if it actually _means_ something,” he grumbles, finally settling back into a seated position beside her.

Onyx eyes are sharp when they flicker back at him, before looking away once more. Her lips purse, one hand running through her hair, ink-black spilling through her fingers. She studies the locks as she speaks, as if not wanting to face him. “We are not in Fire Country, nor Wind Country, nor Lightning nor River nor Tea.”

“Are you sure about that last one?”

She ignores him with a dignified sniff, though by the tightening around her eyes she did not miss his quip, and is far from amused by it. “We are not in Konoha, nor Suna, nor are we in Kumo. We are not at the Nakano, nor are we-”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good,” he waves her answers - well, not answers - away impatiently. “But that does nothing to tell me where we _are_.”

“We’ve been over this.” Narrowed eyes are warning him to tread lightly, but he’s too irritated to pay them any mind.

“And telling me what’s _not here_ isn’t actually telling me _anything_.”

“That’s because you’re thinking about this all wrong.” She’s snapping at him now, and takes a moment to breathe, closing her eyes tight against her own irritation. Twirling the ends of her hair through her fingers, twisting and twisting them into near knots, scratching her nails through the locks.

Her voice is much calmer when she next speaks. “You keep asking where ‘here’ is, thinking of ‘here’ and ‘not-here.’ But that won’t give you what you’re looking for. It’s more ‘there’ and ‘not-there.’ This _place_ ,” she flicks a delicate wrist, “is Not-Kumo, Not-Konoha, Not-Nakano. It has no name.”

He huffs, the sound petulant and snub. “Why not just name it then?”

From the look on Haru’s face, one would think she was dealing with a rather stubborn and impudent child. He’s built up a strong immunity to such looks over the years. It’s practically Madara’s default expression towards him - in public, anyway. His eyes are more smoldering in private, grin predatory and chakra boiling beneath the surface.

“Call it what you like, Tobirama-san.” He flushes, focusing back on Haru as she speaks. “But just as calling me Haru does not name me, attempting to label this place as ‘here’ will not make it any less ‘not-there.’” Her tone leaves no room for further discussion, even as her riddles leave his mind whirling, desperate for answers and loathing the nature of philosophical discussions.

 

* * *

 

There’s a pregnant silence between them, crimson eyes studying the only other being around in his periphery. It is painfully obvious Haru has little patience for his questioning, but curiosity left him squirming next to her. His return had only made things worse; and, no matter how irritating his questions might be, no matter how much he should fear this woman sitting peacefully at his side, he _knows_ the answers he might squeeze out of her would be worth the effort.

After all, curiosity might have killed the cat…

“Why are you nameless?”

A long-suffering sigh is his only answer.

He waits a while, absently playing with the end of his long shirt, the light blue fabric surprisingly stain free considering his frequent ventures to this clearing. Even his hands and fingernails are clear of dirt - another oddity to add to the list, he muses. Dirt and dust and all sorts of foreign substances found their way under his nails, despite his ritualistic cleansing. It was a source of constant irritation for Mito, who is constantly swatting his “filthy” hands away from the food she has “so lovingly prepared for her family to _eat_ , not to be contaminated by whatever lab nonsense he was carting about on his hands.”

Never mind that it is always Hashirama who cooks for them, Mito still not used to her husband’s diet. His allergies and extreme empathy for all living creatures makes most typical dishes obsolete in the Senju Head household.

Field missions are an absolute nightmare when Hashirama is involved. It’s no wonder even Madara, the man’s _best friend_ \- and practically his brother-in-law - refuses to go along with him.

“You said calling you Haru-san would not name you,” he tries again, because, as he’s been told many times, he cannot let things go. Once something catches his eye, he’s bound to play with it, pull it apart at the seams and dissect it piece-by-piece. He’s also been told he has little sense of self-preservation, and whether or not those two observations are related is beside the point.

After a heavy pause, he picks his stick back up and pokes the bear some more, “The implication being you have no name.”

The dense weight of her stare is unnerving. “There is no one to name me, and none to keep it.”

“Do you not have a family?” Try as he might, he can’t keep the sympathy out of his voice, cannot keep the edges from softening. He does not wish to pity her, knows she would not appreciate it.

“No.”

Though the word holds no sadness, Tobirama feels his chest tighten all the same, closing his eyes against the flood of its intensity. He could never imagine not having a family. He has Itama and Kawarama, and Hashirama and Mito, all waiting for him back home - hell, even Madara has found a place in their family, at his side, as odd a fit many think he is. To not have any of them, not a single person to call his brother or sister…

“I’m sorry.” His voice is gravelly with emotion, and he swallows against the tight lump in his throat. “You could always go back with me. She tries to hide it, but Mito adores company. Itama might pester you though. He loves new people.”

Dark eyes blink owlishly at him. Haru parts her lips to speak, but seems to think better of it.

The silence lasts long enough to make Tobirama fidget, wondering if he’d said something wrong, if he should apologize. He’s trying to figure out how to do just that when Haru’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“I’ve never been anywhere before.”

He takes a minute to analyze the implications. It’s clear from his previous visit that wherever they are isn’t included in ‘anywhere,’ but are there other places like this that fall into that ‘not-anywhere’ category? Is this the only existing not-place place? Is she always here? Though she’s always here when he visits, he’s only been here a handful of times - not nearly enough to say with certainty this is where she stays.

His mind quickly runs away from him, his mouth spilling out questions without his knowledge or permission: How have you never been anywhere else? Have you tried leaving? Where did you get your kimono then? Your pot? What about the tea? Does someone bring these things for you? How do they get here? How did _I_ get here?

She holds a hand up, and his mouth snaps shut. Hand still in the air, she brings her cup close to her face, breathing in the aroma deeply, eyes closed. The smell seems to calm her, and as she lowers the cup back to her lap, she allows her other hand to follow, eyes fluttering back open.

“I cannot leave. No. I simply wear what you see. I use what is here. I brew it. No one who comes here brings any tangible gifts or offerings. I cannot tell you what you have already forgotten.”

As he’s mulling over the information, eyebrows scrunched tightly as he processes it all, his mouth betrays him once more, and he mutters, “How can you use what’s here if _here_ isn’t a thing?”

Haru shoots him a withering stare. “All languages have limitations. I cannot fix what I did not make.”

He frowns slightly, distracted from her earlier exposition. “There is always room for improvement, yes, but you do not need to be the creator to make said improvements.”

Her huff is nothing short of indignant. “Yes, I’ll get right on fixing your entire language.” Her tone is wry before she turns to him once more. “Language is is simply sounds and expressions made for the purpose of communication. You understood what I meant. You’re being contrary just for the sake of it.”

He presses his lips thin, but does not respond. Right or not, he doesn’t have to admit to anything. He takes another minute to process all the information he’s gathered. There’s a thought that’s trying to form, a sneaking suspicion he’s not sure how to address. In a rare moment of tact in her presence, he speaks slowly, mulling over each word as he speaks.

“Haru-san, if I may… Exactly what are you?” Well, so much for tact. Probably not the best approach to such a topic, but it’s broad enough that she can stay vague if she wishes, indirect enough to not be an accusation.

Her too-sweet smile promises him a headache. “Why, Tobirama-san, I already told you. You could call me a tea sommelier.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, hiding them in his sleeves, and does not pout. He does grumble, brows pinching together. “One with very few customers.”

“I have many customers, Tobirama-san.” At his confused look, she continues. “Hundreds of thousands. You are hardly my first, and you are far from my last.”

He frowns, looking up at the bright half-moon above them. Light celeste swirling in cobalt, dripping azure into the otherwise onyx-black sky. The colors seems to move above him. “I’m afraid I make a poor customer, Haru-san. I have no way to pay you.”

“Everyone pays, Tobirama.” The drop in formality has him staring back at her - surprised, though not upset. Her expression is soft, eyes warm. She holds out his tea once more, steam wafting towards him. She tilts her head, a smile brightening her face despite the ominous words she speaks, “Though the payment is not mine to take, I keep it all the same.”

He takes the cup held out to him, staring at his reflection within. He considers it - not out of trust. He has not felt even an inkling of ill-will from Haru, but knows all the same she has no reason not to harm him, and would more than likely have no issue doing so. It’s the _curiosity_ \- the _need_ to know - driving him further and further down. He’s been told it will be the death of him, and he’s not entirely certain that sentiment’s false.

“What will happen when I drink this?” Voice low, thoughtful. ‘When,’ not ‘if.’

Her smile still warms her face, chakra spilling out of her to pool around them, deep, dark, and so _enthralling_. “You will forget. And I,” she turns away from him now, voice carrying across the pond, low and rumbling and dense with authority, “I will remember.”

Chamomile and vanilla, sweet and calming, relaxes his posture and soothes his mind. The taste fills him, and overflows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haru (春) means spring, as in the season. Izumi (泉) means spring, as in a fountain of water. Tobirama does not speak English, and therefore does not understand the different English meanings of the word "spring." The woman does, and finds herself quite clever, since she knows everything around them resembles both water and the springtime.
> 
> Ubame gashi, mizunara, and kashiwa are some of the various breeds of oak that grow in Japan. The first grows near sea coasts, the second up high on the mountain sides, and the last grows in the more subartic zones. Each have varying different types of leaves and coloring.
> 
> In old Chinese works, they used terms like "hundreds of thousands" to signify "everything."
> 
> Tea sommelier - essentially a tea specialist.  
> Dendrology - the scientific study of trees  
>   
> Aya Gozen was born in the early 1500's. Her Buddhist name is Sentō-In (仙洞院), and she was enshrined at Risen-ji temple, near modern-day Kyōto. There's nothing to suggest she studied any form of dendrology, nor anything about her traveling much in her lifetime.
> 
> Questions/comments are, as always, welcomed and greatly appreciated!


	4. Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stares at the pond. Studies the rich moon hanging like a thread above them.
> 
> “Do I have to drink it?”

_Earth_

The taste of vanilla is faint, fading from his lips. Clover cool between his toes. Earth, soft and loose at his bare feet. Tree bark rough against the soft pads of his fingers.

He approaches the pond, thinking of the koi Itama dotes on, and is disappointed to find it empty.

There is a woman here. She looks regal, like the men and women painted on canvases at the market. Tobirama can feel the steady weight of her chakra, feels warmth and comfort there. He blinks at her, watches her pour tea, before speaking softly, “You feel like Anija.”

Most people look at him and see his youth, see a boy too small, too thin. Hear a voice that has yet to deepen with maturity. “And who is Anija?” She quirks a sculpted eyebrow, pink lips twitching, but does not mock him.

Tobirama settles on the balls of his feet, pale arms holding his knees to his chest. His eyes focus on the water before them, searching for any hint of movement. The reflecting gold-brown of the crescent moon is so similar to the earth tones of his family, soothing and calm. “Hashirama. He’s warm too, like you. Kawarama a little, too, but not as much.”

“Is he another sibling?”

He nods softly, pulling at the grass with his toes. “Yeah. Itama and Kawarama are younger than me, though.” A small smile graces his lips. His brothers are a nuisance at times, but he adores them all the same.

The woman holds out a cup for him. He frowns. He can smell it from here - oolong, something he’s never cared for, though his father drinks it with breakfast every morning. Not wanting to be rude, he takes it anyway, placing it gently on the bed of clover. He refuses to look at it, nose scrunching at the thought of the bitter taste.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

He purses his lips thoughtfully, glancing over at her through long white lashes. “Children?”

Her laugh is rich, warm, rolling through him. Her eyes are bright with humor. “No. No children either.”

His expression turns into what Hashirama would _incorrectly_ call a pout. She runs a hand through his unruly hair, a chuckle at his expression, nails massaging his scalp in small circles. Before he can stop himself, he’s laying his head in her lap, knees close to his chest, face pressed into the warm red-tan-gold earth of her kimono.

“I never met my mother,” he murmurs, closing his eyes against the pleasant feel of long fingers in his hair. He remembers being told she died shortly after Itama was born. “I met Anija’s mom, but…” The first wife of Butsuma never cared much for children, even the two she birthed herself.

She hums softly in response, the sound deep and low. Tobirama peers up at her, taking in her long hair and expensive silk robes, her manicured nails a deep brown. He sighs as she brushes white hair from his face. “Are you a Lady? Or an Empress?”

“I could be neither of those things.”

“Oh.” A pause. “An Emperor?”

She chuckles, looking down at him with bright eyes. “I couldn’t be that either.”

He looks away from her, fiddling with the long ties of his sleep pants. He glances back up at her - but looks away quickly, pink dusting his cheeks with heat. “Are you…?” He pauses, swallowing. “Are you a lady or a man?” Focusing on the extremely interesting frayed edges of his hand-me-down pants, he cannot see her expression well. He hopes he hasn’t upset her.

“I am neither.” She continues to play with his hair, her tone sounding neutral. He doesn’t understand her answer, but nods anyway, frowning ever so slightly.

There’s a minute of silence between them, soft and unconcerning. All the same, Tobirama starts when she speaks up again. “You may call me either or, if you wish. However you see me is fine.”

He closes his eyes, sighing softly at the pleasant warmth around him.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a routine for them.

Each time he returns, he lays his head in her lap, telling her stories of his family: Hashirama learning to grow red spider lilies and baby’s breath, braiding them into everyone’s hair; Butsuma’s quiet smile and broad hand on his shoulder; Itama and Kawarama both ‘sneaking’ into his room at night, crawling into his futon while he tries to stifle his laughter, allowing their small bodies to press against his own to stave off the cold; Madara’s booming laugh and fiery temper, throwing Anija into the Nakano.

The woman smiles knowingly at the blush on his cheeks as he speaks of Madara, but thankfully does not comment. He doesn’t understand the fluttering in his stomach when he thinks of him, and can’t imagine trying to explain it to someone else.

He knows he’s being rude, not drinking the tea she always has brewed for them. Feels guilty each time he pushes it off to the side, letting it go to waste.

Eventually, he returns and does not lie down. He sighs as he sits there, staring at the dirt colored liquid, studying the ornate chestnut design on the side of his cup. He most definitely does not pout.

“I don’t like oolong.”

He stares at the pond. Studies the rich moon hanging like a thread above them. Fidgets. Pulls at the damp grass beneath him. His next sigh is a deep huff of air out his nose, his tone nothing short of a whine.

“Do I _have_ to drink it?”

“Eventually, yes. Everyone does.”

He shoots her a look, wrinkling his nose at her, disappointed in the less-than-satisfactory answer. She simply looks at him as she always does, with a patient warmth in her eyes and a smile at her lips.

He drinks the tea, forcing himself not to gag at the taste of rotten leaves and old earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red spider lilies, in Japan, represent lost memory and abandonment  
> In some cultures, baby's breath represents everlasting pureness and innocence


	5. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything and nothing. One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, more of an Epilogue than anything else.

_One_  

A figure walks through the woods, pale-white and bare. Crimson flickers back and forth, taking in the looming masses trees around them, breathing with the rippling water.

He is grass and clover, bark on the oaks, the cold of the water.

The sky is black and empty, nothing left to illuminate the clearing, the clothed figure ahead. He is her as well - the fire in her veins, the rich warmth of her full eyes, the spark of her energy.

She takes ahold of him, leads him forward into the crisp water. He feels the vibrations of her voice, finds himself in the deep, low tones.

A gentle grip on a shoulder, and he is being pushed forward, earth at his feet, sand under his nails, water all around him - and he becomes nothing once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meng Po, or Old Lady Meng, is a demon in Chinese mythology. Her job is to brew tea for the souls of the dead, the Five Flavored Tea of Forgetfullness, that causes immediate and permanent erasure of all memories of both their past life and their stay in hell. Taking artistic liberties, I made it five different teas instead of one five-flavored tea, the first erasing Tobirama's memories of the afterlife. The rest slowly strip back who he was as an individual, until he is ready to be reborn once more.
> 
> I pictured the woman as Itachi the entire time writing this, but she's not really him? And she's also not really a woman? So she's kinda sorta a gender bent Itachi, but not actually gender bent, and also not technically Itachi.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to anyone who stuck through this story! Any questions or comments are both welcome and greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, questions/comments are welcomed and greatly appreciated!


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